Poems. William Butler Yeats

      Three days for traffic.

      Come in, come in, you are welcome.

      That is my wife. She mocked at my great masters,

      And would not deal with them. Now there she is;

      She does not even know she was a fool,

      So great a fool she was.

      She would not eat

      One crumb of bread bought with our master's money,

      But lived on nettles, dock, and dandelion.

      There's nobody could put into her head

      That Death is the worst thing can happen us.

      Though that sounds simple, for her tongue grew rank

      With all the lies that she had heard in chapel.

      Draw to the curtain. (TEIG draws it.) You'll not play the fool

      While these good gentlemen are there to save you.

      Since the drought came they drift about in a throng,

      Like autumn leaves blown by the dreary winds.

      Come, deal – come, deal.

      Who will come deal with us?

      They are out of spirit, sir, with lack of food,

      Save four or five. Here, sir, is one of these;

      The others will gain courage in good time.

      I come to deal – if you give honest price.

      "John Maher, a man of substance, with dull mind,

      And quiet senses and unventurous heart.

      The angels think him safe." Two hundred crowns,

      All for a soul, a little breath of wind.

      I ask three hundred crowns. You have read there

      That no mere lapse of days can make me yours.

      There is something more writ here – "Often at night

      He is wakeful from a dread of growing poor,

      And thereon wonders if there's any man

      That he could rob in safety."

      Who'd have thought it?

      And I was once alone with him at midnight.

      I will not trust my mother after this.

      There is this crack in you – two hundred crowns.

      That's plenty for a rogue.

      I'd give him nothing.

      You'll get no more – so take what's offered you.

      Has no one got a better soul than that?

      If only for the credit of your parishes,

      Traffic with us.

      What will you give for mine?

      "Soft, handsome, and still young" – not much, I think.

      "It's certain that the man she's married to

      Knows nothing of what's hidden in the jar

      Between the hour-glass and the pepper-pot."

      The scandalous book.

      "Nor how when he's away

      At the horse fair the hand that wrote what's hid

      Will tap three times upon the window-pane."

      And if there is a letter, that is no reason

      Why I should have less money than the others.

      You're almost safe, I give you fifty crowns.

      A hundred, then.

      Woman, have sense – come, come.

      Is this a time to haggle at the price?

      There, take it up. There, there. That's right.

      Come, deal, deal, deal. It is but for charity

      We buy such souls at all; a thousand sins

      Made them our Master's long before we came.

      Here, take my soul, for I am tired of it.

      I do not ask a price.

      Not ask a price?

      How can you sell your soul without a price?

      I would not listen to his broken wits;

      His love for Countess Cathleen has so crazed him

      He hardly understands what he is saying.

      The trouble that has come on Countess Cathleen,

      The sorrow that is in her wasted face,

      The burden in her eyes, have broke my wits,

      And yet I know I'd have you take my soul.

      We cannot take your soul, for it is hers.

      No, but you must. Seeing it cannot help her

      I have grown tired of it.

      Begone from me,

      I may not touch it.

      Is your power so small?

      And must I bear it with me all my days?

      May you be scorned and mocked!

      Drag him away.

      He troubles me.

      His gaze has filled me, brother,

      With shaking and a dreadful fear.